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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24622171">Items Accumulated (and Lost) Over Time</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sloane/pseuds/Sloane'>Sloane</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Archivist Sasha James, Background Jon/Martin (But it Gets Complicated), Body Horror, Chapter Specific Content Warnings, F/M, Hunt!Tim, M/M, Workplace Horror/Comedy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 09:42:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,813</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24622171</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sloane/pseuds/Sloane</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with Sasha James working as Practical Researcher for the Magnus Institute. The multiple marks she acquires testing cursed artifacts render her a more enticing candidate for Head Archivist than one Jonathan Sims.</p><p>Michael, otherwise known as the Distortion, takes an early interest in Sasha’s career. Its help (or interference, if you ask Elias) leads to a road trip across the US with an undead goth, while the newly minted Archivist and her assistants try to thwart the Apocalypse in the UK.</p><p>It’s all connected by the items they collect, trade, lose, or destroy along the way. Some are powerful, some just have sentimental value.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley, Sasha James/Tim Stoker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>81</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. An Antique Hand Mirror (Broken)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I was originally going to do this Sasharchivist AU as a series of individual stories, but seeing as the event I started this for is on hiatus until further notice, it’s now its own story with the relevant prompts in chapter notes.</p><p>Unlike my other longfic, this one changes perspective now and then.</p>
    </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Prompt: No Value</p><p>cw: typical spiral unreality, blood</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After two days spent feeling like a glorified museum security guard, Sasha James gets her first real assignment testing artifacts for the Magnus Institute on Wednesday morning. It’s a plain, narrow parcel like something a department store might use for gift wrapping. Instead of paper, it’s bound in twine, and it looks like someone stepped on it once or twice. </p><p>A crisp envelope is taped to the box, making it seem like a somewhat belated and mishandled welcoming gift to her new job. Sasha slides the note out to find it’s from Elias Bouchard, Director of the Institute himself.</p><p>“Well, don’t I feel special,” she says to the empty room.</p><p>Sasha only talked to Elias once before, when she interviewed for the job, and hasn’t seen him since she started. Maybe she made a good impression after all.</p><p>His handwriting is very fancy, but the message gets right down to business—welcome to practical testing, this is your first item, try it out, record the results. New assignments will soon follow as a fair number of artifacts remain untested. However, this new arrival just happens to be most pressing. Blah, blah, use the utmost caution, good luck. </p><p>And yet there’s no explanation of how exactly to go about testing anything, let alone whatever the box contains. The message ends with Elias’s signature. The flourish under it takes up a lot of space—so much that Sasha wonders if he’s compensating for something.</p><p>A postscript informs her that filing statements on any goings-on during testing will not be necessary, as her reports will be more than sufficient, so please don’t waste Ms. Robinson’s valuable time.</p><p>“As if she’s even around to file any statements,” Sasha mutters, tossing the note aside. For a woman of such advanced years, Gertrude is out of the office quite a lot. She doesn’t even have any assistants to help her, which seems odd for someone in a Head Archivist position, but then Elias warned Sasha when she interviewed that the Institute is suffering a lean period. No explanation why, but she knew better than to ask if she wanted one of the limited openings available. How she beat any number of more qualified applicants to end up in Artifact Storage is anyone’s guess.</p><p>Sasha unties the twine and pulls the bent lid off the box, revealing a tarnished silver hand mirror resting face down in a thick bed of white tissue paper. An intricate swirling design, almost like a maze, is etched on the back. Trying to follow it to its center hurts her eyes.</p><p>Sasha fights off the compulsion to keep staring at the design and picks up the mirror. It’s heavier than she expects and cold to the touch. Maybe it’s not made out of silver, after all, as the texture of the handle feels odd. It looks like metal but feels like velour under her fingers. She frowns and transfers it to her other hand, thinking that can’t be right, but then it feels oddly rough and scratchy. It never stops looking like tarnished silver, however—so tarnished it’s mottled yellow and black like a bruise.</p><p>There are official institute forms in the desk drawer, but she figures it best to wait until she’s examined every inch of the thing before getting to that. It feels silly, but somehow putting the mirror down and out of her sight for even a moment seems like a bad idea.</p><p>Sasha takes a steadying breath and flips the mirror around to get a look at the reflective side.</p><p>The glass is shattered. Sasha’s fragmented and distorted reflection blinks in surprise and confusion.</p><p>“Okay, then...”</p><p>Something behind her—or rather, something behind her reflection—draws Sasha’s attention. She glances back and sees only rows of firmly closed shelves. The movement is only in the mirror. She twists it, so her face isn’t blocking so much of whatever it is that caught her eye.</p><p>One of the larger broken pieces shows her the same room, but laid out much differently and poorly lit by candlelight. The hand-carved wooden shelves filling the space are mostly empty, and two shadowy figures are embracing next to one of the few items on display—some kind of grotesque idol.</p><p>Sasha blushes as she realizes the two men are doing much more than embracing as the shelves rattle and groan beneath their weight. She turns the mirror away.</p><p>Another shard gleams as it catches the light, but it’s very narrow and gives a poor view of the room. The lighting in the mirror is better, and the shelving is now metal. A woman passes by, and Sasha has to move with her to keep from losing her in the reflection. Judging by the woman’s hair and dress, it’s sometime in the 1980s, but Sasha didn’t meet any older members of staff who looked like her while she was making introductions across departments. </p><p>Gertrude would probably know the woman, who has a kind face, but she’s out of the country for some Archivist thing. The woman hums to herself as she moves through the shelves, checking the embossed labels against the clipboard she’s holding—searching for something. Sasha can hear the humming as clearly as if they were really in the same room, but she doesn’t recognize the tune.</p><p>A pallid hand taps the woman on the shoulder, and suddenly it feels like Sasha’s watching a horror movie. She wants to yell not to turn around, but it’s hopeless. The woman turns, shrieks at whatever she sees—and swoons like a dainty Victorian lady. </p><p>Sasha can hardly believe her eyes. She tries to angle the mirror to see precisely where the woman collapsed, or even what made her faint, but the image is lost. Every fragment of the glass only shows the present-day storage shelves now.</p><p>That can’t be right.</p><p>Sasha tilts the mirror down and looks up.</p><p>She’s no longer in Artifact Storage at all. Instead of standing between two shelves, she’s in a cramped hallway with ugly carpeting that stretches on seemingly without end. The color scheme of the place is an offense to the senses. It’s all bright colors and clashing patterns, like a bowling alley or arcade, but somehow worse. There are pictures on the walls, but for some reason they just show more endless hallways with similarly tacky decor. Every now and then there’s a mirror—unlike the one in her hand, they’re intact—but her reflection is always warped. She tries not to look too closely as she passes.</p><p>Sasha keeps walking until it becomes clear she’s getting nowhere. She holds the hand mirror up again. It shows many different versions of the corridor stretching behind her—as well as a new face looming over her shoulder. It makes no sense for its grin to fill every fractured shard, but it does. Sasha swallows hard, envying the woman from the past who could faint at the drop of the hat, and slowly turns around.</p><p>She’s not sure what she’s looking at exactly, but she has to crane her neck up to look at it. The thing is vaguely person shaped, with very long arms and legs and curly blonde hair that lazily drifts around its caricature of a face. There’s so many other shapes and colors in the halls that the addition of this creature is nearly overwhelming. </p><p>It speaks in a soft voice that should be comforting but isn’t.</p><p>“Isn’t it funny how a mirror is like a door?”</p><p>Sasha blinks. Her grip tightens on the mirror. She feels it draw blood as if she were clutching the wrong end of a knife, but she can’t let go.</p><p>Sasha licks her dry lips. Finding her voice is difficult.</p><p>“No,” she says. “Not really.”</p><p>The tall thing tilts its head at a ninety degree angle.</p><p>“Aren’t you afraid, little archive rat?” It leans closer, its eyes spiraling endlessly upon themselves. Sasha forces herself not to gaze into them. Instead, she focuses on the way its hair is drifting in the air as if it were underwater. “Don’t you want to <em>run</em> through my maze?”</p><p>Sasha’s mind races. Part of her wants to just curl up and scream until she passes out. She ignores that part and instead indulges the bloody foolish part that wants to talk back to the creature. If she’s going to die she might as well go out snarking.</p><p>“I’m not technically with the Archives,” she says primly. “Artifact Storage is its own department.”</p><p>Sasha doesn’t add that the department is currently a staff of one due to budgetary constraints.</p><p>“And speaking of artifacts.” She can’t help that her hand is trembling when she holds out the mirror, or that her blood is running down the handle and filling the cracks in the glass. “I think this is yours.”</p><p>The distorted figure erupts into loud, echoing laughter. Sasha winces. Just when she thought this place couldn’t get any worse, it goes and does <em>that</em>.</p><p>The laughter goes on and on, reverberating through her head until Sasha feels she might shatter like glass under the pressure of it.</p><p>She sags with relief when it finally tapers off into a sigh.</p><p>“And what, pray tell, would I want with that old thing?” The thing sneers. “It’s broken. Ruined. And now you’ve got blood all over it, too.”</p><p>“Never mind that.” Sasha doesn’t even think of what she’s saying. “How often does the Institute willingly return things its seized? There’s novelty value just in that.”</p><p>“Hmm....” A massive hand thoughtfully curls up to its chin. “Perhaps.”</p><p>Sasha holds her breath.</p><p>The distorted figure laughs. She feels it in her teeth.</p><p>“Fine,” it declares, plucking the mirror out of her hand. “One worthless thing for another.”</p><p>Sasha doesn’t realize exactly what that means until it pushes her backwards with the other hand. Suddenly she’s falling through a door she didn’t know was there. She lands on her arse in the middle of Institute canteen, her hand still bleeding.</p><p>Tim from Research looks up from sandwich, his face going pale as he sees the smear of blood she’s left on the linoleum floor.</p><p>“Sasha?”</p><p>They’d promised to have lunch together the other day. This wasn’t what either of them imagined.</p><p>“Sorry,” Sasha says, before finally losing consciousness.</p>
<hr/><p>She wakes up in A&amp;E with Elias, of all people, sitting at her bedside. After what happened with the mirror, she’s not sure she trusts her own eyes.</p><p>The mirror. Oh god, she handed Institute property over to some sort of nightmare creature on her very first assignment. She is <em>so</em> fired.</p><p>Elias smiles. “How are you feeling, Sasha?”</p><p>“Like shit.”</p><p>Sasha grimaces. She didn’t mean to answer truthfully, much less curse, but the words just tripped out of her mouth of their own accord. It’s probably whatever drugs they’ve got her on. She forces herself to smile, trying to find the silver lining.</p><p>Silver—yes, just like that damned mirror.</p><p>“But at least I’m alive, right?”</p><p>“Indeed!”</p><p>Elias is too damn chipper. He doesn’t seem the type for it. Sasha is instantly put on edge. She shifts uncomfortably in her hospital bed as his eyes bore into her—specifically into the fresh bandage wrapped around her hand.</p><p>“Was it that bad?” she asks.</p><p>“Hmm?” Elias blinks several times times as he looks up, as if he’s having trouble focusing. “Oh, no, of course not. Injuries such as yours always look far worse than they truly are, what with all the blood. It was nothing a few stitches couldn’t fix.”</p><p>Sasha relaxes just a little. The mere mention of stitches makes her hand throb, whereas until that moment she barely felt any pain at all.</p><p>“Can’t imagine how you managed such a cut on your hand, though.”</p><p>Sasha tenses right back up. She laughs. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”</p><p>“Oh, really?”</p><p>Some of the false cheer drains from Elias’s voice. Sasha feels like he’s leading her in a dance she doesn’t know the steps to—and he’s <em>still fucking smiling.</em></p><p>“Found it!” A familiar voice calls. “Hey, Sasha!” It’s Tim, who looks rightfully stunned to find Elias in the urgent care cubicle with Sasha. His posture goes rigid. “Er, hi... boss?”</p><p>“Tim.” Elias stands. “I was just leaving. I trust I’ll see you all bright and early tomorrow morning. I look forward to your report in particular, Sasha.”</p><p>Someone plows into the back of Tim before he or Sasha can respond.</p><p>“What th—oh, hi Mr. Bouchard!” Martin practically squeaks the greeting in abject terror at the surprise appearance of the Head of the Institute.</p><p>“Just Elias is fine, I keep telling you.” The smile accompanying the words does nothing to soothe anyone’s nerves. “Now, if you’ll excuse me... Ah, and a good evening to you too, Jon.”</p><p>Sasha didn’t even see the third person waiting around the curtain—or lurking, more like—nor does she hear his response as Elias slips past Martin to make his exit.</p><p>Tim doesn’t wait nearly long enough to be safe before groaning, “God, I hate that ‘we’re all friends here’ first name basis shit. Gives me the creeps!”</p><p>“Tim!” Martin hisses in a whisper.</p><p>“It’s safe.” Jon emerges from around the corner. “He’s already gone.”</p><p>“I wonder where he’s got to be in such a hurry,” Sasha muses.</p><p>“Hot date, maybe?” Martin guesses.</p><p>“Nope!” Tim makes a motion as if throwing a flag on a playing field. ”If we’re going to debate our boss’s personal life, we’re doing it over drinks. Preferably only after <em>a lot</em> of drinks.”</p><p>“That was why you dragged us all the way over here in the first place,” Jon says, not even trying to hide how perturbed he is with the arrangement. “To see if Sasha would join us.”</p><p>Tim grins and winks at her. “Well, I was <em>going</em> to pretend we just happened to be in the neighborhood, but yeah—wanna come?”</p><p>Sasha smiles back at him, feeling good for the first time since she woke up. “Sure, as soon as they discharge me.”</p><p>A nurse pops in to inform her it’s just about time for that—and to scold her for having too many visitors at once. She tells Sasha her friends can sit in the waiting area and chases the boys off. As the nurse methodically works on unhooking her from the tubes and monitors, Sasha boggles over the fact she somehow already has work friends. She wonders if it’s her winning personality, or simply the mysterious circumstances of her work-related injury.</p><p>Sasha looks at her bandaged right hand as the nurse presents her with a stack of forms to sign, still not sure how she’s going to explain it away—or sign the damn forms. She awkwardly scrawls her signature with her left hand and is soon on her way to join the boys for drinks. Still feeling a bit light headed, she’ll probably just stick with ginger ale. It’s the responsible thing to do, after all—and she sure as hell needs to start being responsible after today.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Next Time: Drinks!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. A Cardboard Pub Coaster</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sasha’s not the only one getting marks not seen in canon.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Prompt: Sexy Lyrics</p><p>cw: drinking, mild ableism, graphic violence, blood</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“This was a bad idea,” Tim says as he paces the waiting room. “I mean, Elias being here was a bad sign, right? Like a black cat crossing your path.”</p><p>“That’s just an old superstition,” Jon says, still perturbed with the whole arrangement, probably because he’s driving. “There’s nothing wrong with black cats.”</p><p>“Too right!” Martin chimes in. “They’re sweet as any other cat. As for Elias... well, he was probably just concerned because Sasha’s a new employee, and the only one working Artifact Storage at the moment. Besides, if anything is bad luck, it’s that place.”</p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jon retorts.</p><p>“Oh, I don’t know.” Tim stops pacing and turns to face Jon and Martin, who are sitting down. He grins and clears his throat. “It was the site of <em>the incident</em>, after all.”</p><p>He puts a great deal of melodramatic emphasis on ‘the incident.’ The late, great Vincent Price would be proud.</p><p>“Tim...” Martin says in warning. He’s looking at something just behind Tim.</p><p>“I’m sorry, what’s all this about an incident?”</p><p>Tim yelps and jumps back at Sasha’s perfectly innocent question. Martin and Jon laugh, the bastards—though in Jon’s case it’s more of a dry ‘heh’ to Martin’s giggling.</p><p>Tim smiles, recovering as quick as he can. “It’s nothing, really. I’m just being an arse.”</p><p>“It comes quite naturally,” Jon adds.</p><p>Tim gives him a nasty look.</p><p>“Seriously, though,” Sasha insists. “What?”</p><p>Martin stands. “Maybe we should talk about this as we go.”</p><p>“There’s really nothing to it,” Jon says, taking the lead as he fishes his car keys out of his pocket. “There was a leak, the carbon monoxide detectors failed, and the Artifact Storage staff succumbed to the fumes. The Institute suffered rather severe fines for the—”Jon sighs. “—<em>ahem</em>, incident, but it’s all been taken care of since. You should be safe.”</p><p>Sasha rubs the fresh bandage on her hand, her face pale. “Should be?”</p><p>“Couldn’t you soften the blow a tad?” Martin groans, looking just as pale at the matter-of-fact play-by-play of how an entire department got wiped out in an afternoon.</p><p>“She has a right to know.” Jon pauses as they reach his car, giving Sasha a curious look from across the roof. “I’m surprised no one told you sooner.”</p><p>“No.” Sasha shakes her head. “All Elias told me is I‘d be the only member on staff for the foreseeable future due to budgetary constraints.”</p><p>“Likely because of the fines,” Jon says unlocking the doors for everyone.</p><p>“Wait,” Tim says, climbing into the back with Sasha. “How do you know all this?”</p><p>“I pay attention,” Jon says brusquely. “Now everyone please fasten your seatbelts.”</p><p>“Where are we going again?” Martin asks, trying not to look too chuffed over being up front with Jon. He’s failing.</p><p>Jon is oblivious to Martin mooning over him as he starts the car. So much for paying attention. He glances to Tim in the rear view mirror. “The Usual Place?” </p><p>Tim grins. “Where else?”</p><hr/><p>The pub is literally called the Usual Place. Unfortunately for them, it’s apparently hosting a wedding party that evening. The place is so packed that it’s evident from the street they won’t be getting in—or if they do it won’t be a good time.</p><p>“Aw, now what,” Martin groans.</p><p>“There’s plenty of pubs in London,” Sasha offers.</p><p>“But none were quite so familiar with,” Jon says as he speeds back up.</p><p>“We’ll figure something out,” Tim says, refusing to be deterred. “Why don’t we just drive until we find a place that looks good?”</p><p>“The internet exists,” Jon retorts, keeping his hands at ten and two even as he rolls his eyes.</p><p>“Looking up pubs is for tourists,” Tim retorts. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”</p><p>“He’s got you there,” Sasha says.</p><p>“I’m up for adventure,” Martin agrees.</p><p>Jon sighs. “Need I remind you all we just came from the hospital?”</p><p>“Brilliant, so if we get into an epic bar brawl you can easily find your way back!” Tim laughs and looks to Sasha, who smiles and shakes her head.</p><p>“I get to choose the pub, then,” Jon says darkly.</p><hr/><p>They end up at a place called the Old Familiar, where they’re the youngest patrons by 30 years at least. Jon seems perfectly content with this, and moves ahead of the group to claim an empty booth in the back corner—not that there’s anyone to fight him for it. The place is mostly deserted save for what are clearly regulars at the bar.</p><p>The crusty pensioners give Tim and the rest odd looks as they pass, but doing anything more would require moving. They just watch, slowly sipping their pints, and go back to watching the football game on the first generation flat screen hanging over the bar. The TV is the newest piece of technology in sight. Everything else in the pub, like the patrons, is ancient—there’s even an old juke box across from their booth. Tim yearns to see what sort of rock chestnuts its hiding.</p><p>Martin is most nervous about the whole situation. He hovers by the table instead of taking a seat. </p><p>“Jon, are you sure about this?”</p><p>“What?” Jon gives Martin a withering look. “A pub is a pub. You were the ones against looking up an alternative.”</p><p>“Besides,” Tim adds, keeping is voice low. “If there’s a brawl I think the odds are squarely in our favor.”</p><p>“Ooh, I’ll take the one with the long hair and the aviator shades,” Sasha whispers.</p><p>“Careful, he looks like a biter.” Tim laughs.</p><p>Martin and Jon’s murmurs of worried disapproval harmonize nicely.</p><p>“I don’t think the bartender is going to come over,” Sasha says.</p><p>Tim grins. “Martin’s still up.”</p><p>Martin sputters.</p><p>“Oh for pity’s sake.” Jon slides back out of his seat. “Tell me what you want. I get everything.”</p><p>“Um...” Martin freezes as Jon is suddenly standing right next to him. “I’ll help! I mean, you’ve only got two hands, right?”</p><p>Jon sighs. “Fine.”</p><p>“I’ll have a virgin vodka cranberry,” Sasha says.</p><p>“That’s just cranberry juice.”</p><p>“Yes, but I want to sound like I’m ordering something proper.” Sasha smiles innocently as she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear with her good hand. “I don’t want to risk anything alcoholic until I’m sure the painkillers are out of my system.”</p><p>Jon nods his approval at her responsibility and looks to Tim. “You could stand to learn a thing or two from her.”</p><p>“So, back to bar brawls.” Tim leans back in the booth, grinning. “Any tips?”</p><p>Sasha grins back. “Go for the eyes, of course.”</p><p>Jon groans and facepalms.</p><p>“That’s it, she’s officially part of the gang,” Tim declares. “Oh, and the usual pint for me, ta.”</p><p>“This should have taken seconds,” Jon grumbles. “Come on, Martin.”</p><p>“R-right!”</p><p>Sasha leans in to get a better look as Martin hurries after Jon to the bar. Tim holds very still as she hovers over his shoulder, trying not to so much as breathe.</p><p>“Jon has absolutely no idea, does he?”</p><p>“Nope,” Tim says, popping the ‘p’ for effect.</p><p>Sasha laughs and sits back, plucking a cardboard coaster off the pile on the table. It has the same image as the sign out front, though considerably less weatherbeaten—an old, sad-eyed hunting hound staring into the middle distance from a tangle of reeds. It says the pub was established in 1902.</p><p>“Wow,” Tim says. “That dog has seen some shit.”</p><p>“I wonder if the name ‘Old Familiar’ was weird when this place was first opened,” Sasha muses, slipping the coaster into her purse. She catches Tim’s raised eyebrow and blushes. “Souvenir.”</p><p>He shrugs. “Nothing wrong with that.”</p><p>Jon and Martin return with the drinks. Jon has two pints, Martin has two high ball glasses—one with cranberry juice, the other with soda and a lime wedge.</p><p>“I just got a rum and coke,” Martin says. “This doesn’t seem like the kind of place to take kindly to martinis with fun names.”</p><p>Jon doesn’t look over as he slides back into the booth. “Technically, once you twist the lime into it, it’s a Cuba libre.”</p><p>Tim grimaces. Jon’s one of those blokes who read up on mixology in uni and never lets anyone hear the end of it. Then again, Jon knows about a lot more than just mixology, and once he gets going about any given topic it’s hard to get him to stop.</p><p>Martin, of course, is intrigued. “Really?”</p><p>“Ideally it would have more than just a dash of lime juice,” Jon says. “But yes.”</p><p>“Why do they call it a Cuba libre?”</p><p>Jon’s eyes light up. “Well, the exact origins are uncertain, but—”</p><p>“Okay,” Tim says. “Sasha, wanna check out the jukebox?”</p><p>“Oh, um, sure!”</p><p>Jon barely pauses as Tim and Sasha gather their drinks and abandon the booth, resuming in a lecture touching on the origins of US tourism is Cuba before they’re blissfully out of earshot. Martin doesn’t look sad to see them go. In fact, he actually looks interested in what Jon has to say about the storied history of mixing rum and coke together.</p><p>Sasha glances back at the table. “What was that?”</p><p>“A thing Jon does.” Tim leans on the jukebox and takes of sip of his beer. “It’s fun until you realize it’s not going to stop. In the future you probably won’t have a means of escape.”</p><p>“He actually looks happy.” Sasha cradles her drink in her hands as she watches Jon and Martin. “It’s cute. They’re cute.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Tim agrees. “If Jon would just...”</p><p>“Chill out?” Sasha offers. “Or maybe open his eyes and see Martin’s right there hanging on his every word?”</p><p>They have to turn back to the jukebox to keep from looking like they’re laughing at Jon—which they are, but Sasha still has a point, and she barely even knows them. Tim is impressed. He drops in some coins and idly pushes a few buttons. The jukebox is slow to respond, but he’s delighted to find each page behind the glass full of homemade cards filled out with a typewriter. </p><p>The joy of a true retro discovery doesn’t last long. Tim curses under his breath as the machinery grinds and stops responding, leaving them stuck in the middle of the selections.</p><p>“Guess this is it,” Tim says.</p><p>Sasha leans closer, resting her elbow on the curve of the glass. “Looks like nothing after 1980.”</p><p>“Pretty much the theme of this place.” Tim chuckles. “Ooh, here we go.”</p><p>He presses the letter and number for one of the bands he recognizes—the Stooges. Nothing else on the current page strikes his fancy, so for the remaining plays he just hits combinations at random and hopes for the best. The first record is only starting to spin up when he finishes. </p><p>The opening guitar riff of ‘I Wanna Be Your Dog’ stirs emotions in Tim that he tries to chase away with large swig of beer. He remembers practicing it on his own guitar as a teenager while Danny watched and laughed whenever he messed up. He didn’t realize how it would feel hearing the actual song after so many years.</p><p>“Are you okay?” Sasha yells over the music.</p><p>“Fine.” He smiles, still feeling like he’s just been punched in the gut. “I forgot how racy these lyrics were is all.”</p><p>And they’re maybe sending the wrong message, too. He barely knows Sasha, and his first song pick has a young Iggy Pop growling about closing his eyes, closing his mind, being ready to feel somebody’s hand before the refrain goes back to saying ‘I wanna be your dog’ over and over. </p><p>The song feels like it goes on forever in a mortifying ode to sexual submission. All a young innocent Tim knew was the guitar chords were easy to play.</p><p>“I picked all these songs at random,” Tim says, blushing furiously as he downs the rest of his pint.</p><p>Sasha grins wryly and sips her still mostly full cranberry juice. “Uh-huh.” </p><p>As the song ends and the mechanical arm moves to select the next record, Tim excuses himself to get a refill. Neither the bartender nor the old timers look pleased to see him approaching.</p><p>The familiar opening of The Rolling Stones’ ‘Let’s Spend the Night Together’ fills the bar, and Tim dies a little inside. He can only hope and pray whatever comes up last is a real mood killer, something that assures Sasha he is not, in fact, a sex-crazed pervert who comes on way too strong.</p><p>The bartender, a huge ginger bear of a man, finally lumbers over. “Yeah?”</p><p>“More of the same,” Tim says, pushing his glass over.</p><p>“This on that other fella’s tab?”</p><p>“Why, yes.” Tim grins.</p><p>The bartender shakes his head and mutters something under his breath as he turns to pull a fresh pint off the tap. The regulars at the bar have all gone back to watching TV with the exception of the one who Sasha said she could probably take in a fight—a thin old man with a cowboy hat pulled low over long, steel gray hair. His aviator shades hide his eyes, but Tim can feel them boring into him as he waits at the far end of the bar. He debates calling something out, maybe making a disparaging remark about the man’s scraggly mutton chops, but thinks better of it. The bartender’s return breaks up their little staring contest.</p><p>“Just ignore Zed,” he says, sliding the pint over to Tim. “Won’t do to encourage him.”</p><p>“I wasn’t,” Tim protests.</p><p>The bartender gives him a look. Tim takes his drink and hurries back to Sasha.</p><p>“Something the matter?” She asks. “You seem a bit spooked.”</p><p>“I guess I am,” Tim admits. He glances over his shoulder. Zed is still staring. He shivers. “Remind me to never let Jon choose where we go again.”</p><p>Blessed silence fills the bar as the jukebox pulls up the last mystery song.</p><p>Sasha doesn’t bother waiting. “You want to go back to the table?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Tim smiles. “It’s probably safe now.”</p><p>A new song starts up. Tim doesn’t recognize it at all, but it has a nice beat. </p><p>Zed slams his hands down on the bar. “That’s it!” He yells. “I can’t take it no more!”</p><p>His accent is American—Deep South. Tim’s only ever heard anything like it on television until that moment. No one moves to stop Zed as he pushes himself up from the bar, they just watch. He’s better entertainment than a football game on telly, no doubt. </p><p>Zed stomps toward Tim and Sasha, his hands balled into fists. Tim tenses, ready to square up, but Zed moves past him, straight to the jukebox, and yanks the plug out of the wall.</p><p>“Your taste in music sucks balls,” he spits.</p><p>“Sorry,” Tim says. “But I didn’t see any Conway Twitty on there.”</p><p>The words are out of his mouth before he realizes what he’s saying. He should have said it was random. Better yet, he should have said nothing at all. </p><p>Sasha gasps. </p><p>Zed rounds on him. “<em>First of all</em>, I only listen to metal, ya limey prick!”</p><p>“Whoa!” Tim holds his hands up. “Okay, okay!”<br/> <br/>Zed jabs a finger at him. “But because I’m from the south you just gotta assume I love country and fuck my sister, is that it?!”</p><p>“That’s definitely not what I was thinking... at least until you said it just now.”</p><p>Zed throws a punch. He’s drunk and the windup is well telegraphed. Tim ducks out of the way, sending Zed crashing into the unplugged jukebox. The gents at the bar laugh and cheer—all save for the bartender, who sighs heavily and shakes his head.</p><p>That should be the end of it, but Zed recovers surprisingly fast. He growls and yanks his fist out of the jukebox, shards of glass still embedded in his fist and arm. He doesn’t seem aware of the fact he’s already injured as he turns to face Tim, his teeth bared.</p><p>“Think that’s funny,” he hisses.</p><p>Tim shakes his head. “I wasn’t the one laughing!”</p><p>“Zed,” the bartender yells. “Leave ‘im!”</p><p>Tim glances to Sasha. She has her purse clutched in both hands like a weapon and is poised to attack. “Don’t!”</p><p>Taking his eyes off Zed is a mistake. Zed pounces, knocking Tim to the floor. Tim barely has time to think before he feels Zed’s teeth at his throat—his hot, foul, breath on his skin. He remembers joking about him looking like a biter less than an hour ago. He feels Zed bite down. <em>Hard</em>. Tim gasps.</p><p>This can’t be happening. Tim’s far too sober for this to be happening. This is the sort of thing that only happens after at least six pints.</p><p>He never even got to avenge Danny.</p><p>People are screaming and yelling. Lots of people. Were there even that many in the pub total? Or is it echoing in his head?</p><p>Zed suddenly lets up—but only because Sasha has her thumb buried deep in one of his eyes. Tim could swear the other one is glowing amber as Zed howls in pain like an animal. He wonders what happened to the rabid old coot’s hat and sunglasses. Every time Tim blinks he feels like he’s lost vital chunks of time.</p><p>He’s bleeding.</p><p>Martin is suddenly hovering over him. Blood is all over his hands. So much blood.</p><p>“Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god!” Martin cries.</p><p>“Keep applying pressure!” Jon yells.</p><p>Zed is gone. Sasha is gone. There’s just Martin with a bar towel at Tim’s neck and Jon on his mobile. The bartender hovers into view now and again, but he doesn’t look concerned, just annoyed like always. Prick.</p><p>“Sorry,” Tim tries to say, but the words won’t come.</p><p>“Don’t try and talk!” Martin says. He’s crying, really crying. Snot and tears and everything. Tim wants to tell him that’s a bit much, but again, nothing comes.</p><p>Sasha hovers into his field of view. Her good hand is covered in blood and she’s panting. “He escaped out the back!” She points, looking pissed. “There was this huge fence and he jumped it like it was nothing!”</p><p>“The police will find him,” Jon says. “Don’t worry.”</p><p>The bartender barks a short, bitter laugh. </p><p>“<em>Excuse me</em>,” Sasha says, turning her ire on him. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”</p><p>“You kids shouldn’t have come here,” he says. “That’s all.”</p><p>Can’t argue with that, Tim wants to say, but things are getting fuzzy.</p><p>Sasha leans closer, filling his vision. She’s so damn pretty. “The Ambulance is almost here. Just hang in there, okay?”</p><p>Tim smiles. Funny how the tables have turned. First she was worrying him, now he’s returning the favor in spades, right down to passing out on the floor with everyone watching.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>OG Crew: *traumatized*</p><p>Me: (Ron Swanson Voice) Good. It was getting a little chummy around here.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Catalogue of the Trapped Dead (Used)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Heeeeeere’s Gerry</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Here’s Trevor and Julia, too!</p><p>cw: corruption based body horror, violence, cockroaches</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“And so Gerard Keay ended.”</p><p>Pain. </p><p>More than the low background noise of being trapped in the ink of his own flesh—that’s his welcome back to the land of the living. More pain.</p><p>Gerry appears with an echoing sigh. It always feels like he’s holding his breath when he’s stuck waiting, though once he exhales it upon manifesting that’s the last he needs to breathe. </p><p>Trevor is his summoner this time. He and Julia take turns, probably argue about it even then. The old hunter’s lip curls in distaste at the sight of Gerry. Trevor slaps the book closed and shoves it back in his bag of hunting tools, loath to touch it any longer than is necessary.</p><p>Gerry tilts his head. “Well?”</p><p>Trevor points. They’re in what looks like an old abandoned barn. Shafts of light pour down through the holes in the roof. One falls like a spotlight upon the man they’ve got tied to a chair. He’s deathly pale, easy to mistake for one of the ‘vampires’ Trevor is so obsessed with scouring from the face of the earth. Julia is too busy beating the poor bastard with a 2x4 to notice Trevor’s broken down and used the book to call in backup.</p><p>“It’s like a damned roach piñata!”</p><p>And indeed, every blow jars more roaches from the man’s bloated carcass—though he’s still nominally alive at the moment, he’s definitely more roach than man on the inside by this point. The man utters a wheezy laugh at Julia’s exclamation, expelling several roaches that crawl up his face and through his greasy hair. Julia finally gives up with a shriek of disgust and anger. She turns and startles at the sight of Gerry.</p><p>“Motherfucker!”</p><p>“Congratulations,” Gerry says dryly. “You’ve got yourself a walking Corruption hive. Though given roaches are social rather than eusocial, I guess the proper term would be nest in this case.”</p><p>“He won’t be doing much walking with two broken legs,” Julia crows, giving the bound man a savage kick.</p><p>“Don’t be so sure,” Gerry retorts. “The roaches can puppet the body long after it’s dead if they’re desperate enough.”</p><p>“We would rather it not come to that,” the nest says in a chittering multitude of voices. “Let us be reasonable, yesssss?”</p><p>Julia smashes the man in the face, breaking his nose and killing at least one roach in the process. Gerry sighs and shakes his head. Julia’s smarter than Trevor, which doesn’t take much, but her answer to most problems is still to hit them until they stop being a nuisance—or moving, to her it’s all the same.</p><p>Trevor peers at Gerry with his usual suspicion. “How d’ya know so much about all this, ghosty?”</p><p>They have variations of this conversation every time the hunters find something new and exciting to pick apart—something not like their preferred ‘vampiric’ prey. </p><p>Gerry rolls his eyes. “I read a lot books.”</p><p>“Can’t be that smart if you’re trapped in a bloody book yourself, eh?” Trevor cackles.</p><p>“Yes, well, that’s only because I trusted the wrong person.” Gerry glances to Julia. She scowls and looks away. There’s little hope of convincing her she’s better off without Trevor. Gerry doesn’t know why he keeps trying.</p><p>Trevor starts pacing. Here he goes again.</p><p>“And yet you still refuse to tell me the true secrets of the <em>real</em> threats!” He rounds on Gerry’s specter, thankfully dressed in his favorite long black coat out, band t-shirt, distressed jeans, and boots—<em>not</em> the hospital gown he died in. “Look at you! I know yer holdin’ out on us!”</p><p>Right, as if being a goth automatically made Gerry a vampire expert.</p><p>“Unfortunately—”</p><p>Gerry is interrupted by a goddamn James Bond ring tone, of all things. Trevor turns away to answer his mobile. </p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>Gerry reminds himself that for all his refusal to open his eyes to the wider world of the fears he inhabits, Trevor possesses a frightening amount of low cunning coupled with a merciless streak that’s allowed him to survive for decades as a hunter. He may believe he’s hunting penny dreadful monsters, he may frequently dispatch innocents due to false positives over things like someone’s fucking name, but the fact remains he’s dangerous. Julia, his faithful protege, complicates matters even more.</p><p>“Ugh, slow down, slow down,” Trevor growls. “Jules, how do I put this on speakerphone?”</p><p>And Gerry is completely at their mercy so long as they have that fucking book. He watches as Julia puts the call on speaker with the tap of a button Trevor really ought to know.</p><p>“Okay, Zed,” Trevor says. “Repeat what you said—slowly.”</p><p>“I fucked up,” the hillbilly on the other end of the call wails. “These hipster kids came in the pub. Our pub, y’know? And this one guy... Well...”</p><p>“What did you do?” Julia says it slowly, like Zed is a dog that pissed on the floor.</p><p>“Sorta ripped his throat out.”</p><p>“Hey,” Gerry pipes up. “You might not wanna discuss that over the phone. Just a suggestion.”</p><p>“The hell was that?” Zed sounds incredibly spooked. “Y’all hear that? Did the line go bad? Hello?”</p><p>Ah, right. Gerry’s voice only picks up as creepy bursts of static with occasional fragments of words.</p><p>“Just ignore it,” Julia says, giving Gerry a look.</p><p>“You kill him?” Trevor asks, completely ignoring Gerry’s advice on not discussing murder over the phone.</p><p>“Nah, nah,” Zed says. “Least I don’t think. Paramedics got there real quick like. I got the hell outta Dodge so I’m hidin’ out. I just got a few questions.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Our bites ain’t like... <em>contagious</em>, right?”</p><p>Gerry bursts out laughing.</p><p>“Dang,” Zed says. “Connection out here sucks, y’all. Should I call back?”</p><p>“No, no,” Trevor says. “Just let me confer with Julia a moment.”</p><p>The two whisper, then Julia walks over to Gerry to murmur, “You’re gonna have relay what you know through me.”</p><p>Gerry grumbles, but has very little choice in the matter. If he doesn’t cooperate they could leave him out again, and the boredom of being alone and manifested is almost as bad as his default state.</p><p>What Julia ends up telling Zed through Gerry is that she’s not sure if hunters from Appalachia are any different from in the UK, but a bite alone probably isn’t enough to rope the victim into becoming like them.</p><p>However, if the victim died, and there was something that made them an intriguing prospect for the Hunt—say, if they were seeking revenge on someone—it might trigger a classic deathbed conversion instead of the slow road many hunters go down. Those sorts of sudden changes could be dangerous.</p><p>“Dangerous how?” Zed asked. “What if he decides to hunt me, too?”</p><p>“That’s... possible.” Julia says, relaying what Gerry whispers. “But he, er, we’ve never known a hunter who didn’t more or less ease into it.” She gives Gerry a hard look, as her introduction to the Hunt wasn’t exactly gentle, he knows, but she still embraced it eagerly. This seems to be on a different level—and potentially more complicated than anyone on the line knows for certain.</p><p>Zed groans. “So I’m just fucked?”</p><p>“You might wanna go to ground for a bit is all,” Trevor cuts in. “Maybe even go back home to Virginia.”</p><p>“Damn it!” Zed groans. “This was supposed to be a vacation!”</p><p>“Good luck fleeing the country,” Gerry calls cheerfully. “There’s probably a red flag on your passport.”</p><p>“Dang it, the cell service in the country sucks ass,” Zed snarls, still clueless about Gerry’s ghostly interference. “That’s it. I’m hangin’ up. Thanks y’all.”</p><p>Trevor flips his cellphone closed, because of course the old man still has a flip phone. “You know what? We should kill him just to be safe. In case he <em>is</em> a wolf man. No telling what sorts of nasty diseases he picked up hunting in America.”</p><p>“Now, hold up,” Gerry protests.</p><p>Trevor ignores him. “See Julia? This is why you can’t even trust other so-called hunters. They’re nothing like us. Half the time they’re just beasts themselves.”</p><p>Gerry covers his face with his palm. He just fucking gave them a basic primer on the Hunt and they failed to acknowledge any of it by convincing themselves it somehow doesn’t apply to them. He wants to scream.</p><p>“Zed got run out of the states for some reason, too,” Julia says. “I heard it from Red.”</p><p>Gerry peeks through his fingers. What is with these names?</p><p>“I still wouldn’t listen to the likes of him,” Trevor grumbles. “Him and his damn bar in the city. When does he even find time to hunt?”</p><p>Trevor shakes his head at the disgrace of it all, as if the two of them were proud and noble bastions of their kind.</p><p>“So what about the poor bloke he bit?” Julia asks, turning to Gerry. He lowers his hand, genuinely surprised she cares. Maybes she’s not so far gone after all—but there he goes getting his hopes up again.</p><p>“You’ll just have to ask me later—if something turns up again,” Gerry says. Any time spent with these two is always frustrating, as he’s forever stuck beating his fists against the impenetrable fortress of Trevor’s twisted and utterly opaque worldview. </p><p>“In the meantime, your roach nest is getting away.” Gerry points to the empty chair. “And as I was gonna say before we were interrupted—fire and CO2 are your best friends with this sort of Corruption.”</p><p>“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Trevor snarls. “Gerard, you bloody useless bastard! Go! I dismiss you!”</p><p>Yes, Gerry <em>could</em> have mentioned that the captive nest was wiggling free while they were focused on their phone call, but he doesn’t owe them anything but answers to their questions, and sometimes it was worth it just to anger them enough to make them dismiss him early.</p><p>He dissipates with a laugh.</p><p>They don’t need to know the pain never stops—that he’s always distantly aware of the agony of his existence as long as he’s bound to the book they stole. He doubts they’d care if he told them, because to the hunters Gerry is nothing but a monster manual.</p><p>He never really believed in hell while alive, but this feels a lot like it.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Poor Gerry... who will save him from this torment?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. A Performance Note</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Institute returns to business as usual.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Just a short little something for me to try to get back in the swing of writing for Sasha.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sasha returns to work the next day because it still feels a bit early to be taking days off, even if ‘a coworker had his throat ripped out in front of my very eyes’ is a perfectly good reason to take some personal time.</p><p>Oh, and she gouged a man’s eye out, can’t forget that. No matter how much she washed her hands, no matter how scalding the water, Sasha could still feel that phantom sensation of it popping under pressure. She may never be able to eat grapes again. She couldn’t even manage breakfast before work, so it was just her and a thermos of very strong coffee and a haunted look in her eyes that still couldn’t afford her any personal space on the train at the rush hour.</p><p>First the mirror, then <em>that</em>.</p><p>And to top it all off, the first thing Sasha hears upon walking into the Institute is that Elias wishes to speak with her before she does absolutely anything else.</p><p>Is it the mirror, or unprofessional conduct outside of work? She rubs her thumb under her other fingers. The fresh bandage on her dominant hand is there to remind her the cut from the mirror is still healing yet, too.</p><p>Maybe she should just... suck it up and deal with it, yes. Make the best excuses she possibly can, because damn it, she really needs this job. </p><p>Sasha squares her shoulders as she approaches Elias’s office. All the mental preparations she did on the way up crumble the moment the door opens and Gertrude Robinson steps out.</p><p>Sasha freezes.</p><p>As Gertrude looks her up and down, Sasha feels like an ant caught in a focused beam of sunlight through Gertrude’s granny glasses. It’s remarkable she doesn’t burst into flames under the intense scrutiny of Gertrude’s gaze. It feels strangely similar to the way Elias looked at her before, but hot to his cold stare.</p><p>“Ms. James,” Gertrude says tersely.</p><p>All Sasha can do is nod, unable to choke out some inane reply like ‘it’s good to see you back’ because honestly she’s not so sure. If Gertrude is just leaving, Sasha has a terrible feeling she and Elias were either discussing her, or it was completely unrelated but heated enough to put Elias in a mood with Sasha.</p><p>“You missed a button,” Gertrude adds, gesturing vaguely to Sasha’s blouse, and starts walking away as soon as Sasha looks down to see yes, she was a bit rushed getting ready that morning after all.</p><p>Gertrude is gone by the time Sasha fixes it, at which point Elias’s secretary ushers her inside his office.</p><p>It’s is just as creepy as before, with so much old junk—that is to say, valuable antiques—lining the shelves that Sasha doesn’t know where to look. Anything would he preferable to Elias, who is staring at a crisp sheet of paper laid out on his desk.</p><p>“Please, sit down.”</p><p>There are two chairs available. Sasha realizes she took the one Gertrude just vacated a moment too late. The lingering body heat makes it immensely uncomfortable, but it would look odd to get back up and settle into the other now. Sasha sits back and crosses her legs, trying to look at ease as she sits with her purse and her thermos in her lap. She didn’t even have time to put her things down before getting called to the carpet, damn it.</p><p>“You had quite the day yesterday, didn’t you?”</p><p>Sasha can’t tell by his tone if Elias is commiserating or rubbing it in, and his distant expression certainly doesn’t help.</p><p>“Yes, sir,” she replies, trying to be just as impassive. “To say the very least.”</p><p>Elias nods like she’s passed some kind of test.</p><p>“I spoke with the hospital Mr. Stoker was admitted to last night,” Elias adds. “He’s doing remarkably well, all things considered. They expect a full recovery.”</p><p>Some of the tension Sasha is carrying evaporates with the news. She lets her shoulders sag. “Oh, thank god.”</p><p>Elias nods. “Modern medicine is quite remarkable, yes.”</p><p>And new tension rushes to fill the void. Was that a subtle ‘actually there is no god and you’re foolish to say such’ when Sasha was just expressing her relief with the first common phrase that popped into her head? Seriously?</p><p>Best not to rise to take the bait.</p><p>“I’m very glad to hear that, sir,” Sasha says. “But what is it you wanted to speak with me about?”</p><p>“Ah, yes.” Elias smiles. “I thought I’d give you the good news first.”</p><p>Sasha twists the grimace the words inspire into a tight smile. It’s definitely about the mirror, then, but no way in hell is she going to give him the rope to hang her by bringing it up first.</p><p>“Sir?”</p><p>“I know there was no time for you to file a proper report with all the... <em>excitement</em> yesterday, but I couldn’t help but notice the item you were to evaluate is missing from storage now. Care to explain?”</p><p>Sasha stares him right in the eyes. They’re cold and creepy, but they don’t swirl and give her a headache like that thing in the hallway did. Though had Sasha not encountered that thing, she certainly wouldn’t be able to hold Elias’s gaze for <em>any</em> length of time, so in a warped way she feels almost grateful.</p><p>“It was lost during the course of testing.” </p><p>She holds up her bandaged hand for emphasis. Elias stares at her, and Sasha keeps waiting for him to blink, but he never does. It’s only when she finally can’t stand it anymore and looks away that he replies.</p><p>“Well,” he says, voice like a thunderclap in the silence. Sasha can’t stop herself from flinching that time, all her mettle spent. “These things do happen, unfortunately.”</p><p>“So I hear.”</p><p>Sasha is pondering if what happened to the old Artifact Storage employees was really a gas leak when Elias slides the paper over. She realizes it’s an old style type-written form with a carbon copy attached.</p><p>“Please read and sign that,” Elias says, turning over a thick fountain pen. </p><p>It’s a very terse performance note, official Institute heading and all, chiding her for losing Institute property in the course of her duties—as if Elias knew exactly what she was going to say in her defense when he typed it—and stating that by signing she acknowledges her fault and promises to be more careful going forward. Sasha glances up at Elias, who has his hands folded on the desk.</p><p>“You might also consider using a tape recorder during future tests as well,” he says helpfully. “Gertrude swears by them.”</p><p>Don’t react. Don’t do it. Just sign and get out.</p><p>Sasha signs and dates the note with the pen held loosely in her injured hand before sliding both back to Elias. He tears off the pink copy and hands it out to her. Sasha stares at it as if he were offering her a joint during work hours.</p><p>“Some people like to keep a copy for their own records,” Elias says helpfully.</p><p>“Right.” Sasha gingerly takes her copy and folds it several times before stuffing it in her purse. “Thus the old carbon pages, I suppose.”</p><p>She’s not sure what she’s saying, but as long as it’s not ‘fuck you’ repeated over and over again it’s better than just silently taking all this power play bullshit over a job no one told her how to do.</p><p>“I can’t help but be old fashioned about a few things,” Elias says, all smarmy good cheer now that Sasha’s been dressed down without him having to say much of anything at all. The ‘keep a copy for your personal files’ bit is humiliating enough. As if she’s going to scrapbook about working in this damn place.</p><p>“Is there anything else?” Sasha asks, doing her best to keep her tone level and a smile on her face.</p><p>“Just one thing,” Elias says. “Should you happen to run into Gertrude, tell her I said I suppose she’s right.”</p><p>Sasha has absolutely no idea what that means, much less what she’s supposed to say to that, so she just nods and thanks Elias for his time and consideration. The consideration being that he surely considered firing her and decided against it.</p><p>“Have a good day, Sasha!”</p><p>Of course he fucking waits until she’s halfway out the door before saying it, so Sasha pretends not to hear and carries on to Artifact Storage with her thermos of now lukewarm at best coffee.</p><p>It sets a terrible tone for the rest of the day.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Elias is fun to write, I’m sorry.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I know, I have too many Works in Progress, but I can’t help myself, and I DID promise Sasha, didn’t I? Updates will be unpredictable, but comments give me life.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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